A Work of Art
by Bratpack 2.0
Summary: She never expected anyone to understand her—she expected them to learn from her, for through expression and knowledge deep within the soul is what brought art to life.


**Author's Note: This is a tie-in to "God Help the Girls", a collaborative effort featuring Bridget Stevens from "Don't Think Twice"/"Sins of the Saints" by** ** _AndThatWasEnough_** **, a younger version of Cathy Carlson before "The Visit" by** ** _lulusgardenfli_** **, and Ella Mitchell from "Green Light" by** ** _This Is Melodrama_** **. This story primarily focuses on Mrs. Girdlé, who is original to "Green Light", but also cameos in "God Help the Girls", and takes place between chapters sixteen and seventeen of that story. With that said, you'll be noticing some crossover along with Mrs. Girdlé's perspective on some of the events that occured in "God Help the Girls". That's all we are at liberty to say.**

 **Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. We do not own any recognizable or quoted material. We are just having fun playing in the garden. **

**Happy Reading. :)**

* * *

" **In every work of art, the artist himself is present."—Christian Morgenstern**

Shirley Ruth Berthram-Girdlé, better known as Mrs. Girdlé, was quite the peculiar woman. With her plump figure and thick-rimmed glasses, she gave off an energetic vibe, one which was laced with a maternal instinct and a nurturing aura. Her overly large and darkened eyes would come to life, the spark in them seeming to ignite, at the sight of anything pertaining to art, for Mrs. Girdlé loved the subject more than any other, which was why she had decided to teach it.

Mrs. Girdlé taught five classes a day at Will Rogers High School in Tulsa, Oklahoma. She had landed the job several years after teaching art classes at a Summer program back in 1935. She had married young—at age twenty-one—to Richard Girdlé that same year, before giving birth to three beautiful children—Richard II., Ethel, and Margaret—between 1936 and 1942. Mrs. Girdlé considered herself lucky in many aspects. She didn't have much, but she had the gift of giving through her teaching, and teach she did. Many students didn't understand Mrs. Girdlé or her overly chipper personality, but that was just fine, because Mrs. Girdlé didn't expect anyone to understand her—she expected them to learn from her, for through expression and knowledge deep within the soul is what brought art to life.

Her art room smelled strongly of paint, clay, liquin, various plants that were delicately placed along the window sill, and . . . ah, yes, crayon dust. And though these odors all mixed together would be quite foul to a more sensitive nose, they were a breath of fresh air to Will Rogers's one and only Mrs. Shirley Girdlé, because they spoke of home to her—and she wouldn't be remembered for these things anyway, but rather for being understanding and knowledgeable. Students always came back to visit her, and not one of their faces did she forget. Mrs. Girdlé had always been fond of her students, because through each of them, she was able to catch a glimpse of their soul which was expressed in their projects.

The school year of 1965/1966 had stood out to Mrs. Girdlé more than any other, though, because of a certain handful of students who graced her classes throughout the day.

Her first class started early in the morning—Fine Arts/Expressionism.

"Good morning, everyone!" Mrs. Girdlé greeted with enthusiasm. She glanced around the room at each of her students, taking in their tired and less ecstatic countenances. "You may continue working on your expression projects, but remember, they're due next Monday!"

The students bustled about the classroom, some forming a line in the back to retrieve their paintings from the drying racks, and others moving around the room for various supplies. Mrs. Girdlé allowed a smile to brush her lips as she silently concluded attendance. Perfect, everyone was there that morning, except for one, that is. The teacher sighed, wondering what she ought to do about one of her newest—and most prone to challenge her patience—students. Dallas Winston had been placed in her class just over two weeks prior to this moment, and he had done _everything_ in his power to irritate the woman to no end. But Mrs. Girdlé had the patience of a saint, and though Dallas was a cruel and troubled character, she was oddly fond of him.

It was moments later when the blond-headed hoodlum strolled into her classroom, an impish smirk on his face. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and when his gaze found hers, he offered her a sarcastic nod in greeting and made his way to his table all the way in the back of the room behind Jerry Thompson.

With a sigh, Mrs. Girdlé checked Dallas's name off on the attendance chart, and made her way back to where he sat. She shook her head at the placement of his feet, which were propped up on the edge of the table, stool leaning back a little on the wall so that he could stretch.

"Mr. Winston," she said, crossing her arms. "This is the fourth time you've shown up late to my class."

The teen merely smiled, though it could hardly resemble anything pleasant. "Is it?"

"It is," she replied, eyeing him critically. "Mr. Winston, I've warned you what would happen if you continued to show up late, so with that being said, you now have detention with me Friday afternoon."

Dallas glared at her, icy blue eyes narrowing all the more. "That so, lady? Don't you think that stickin' my ass on the homecoming committee was enough in itself?" He swore under his breath, face reflecting sheer humiliation. "Christ almighty, but you're a real pain in—"

"If you finish that sentence, Mr. Winston, you'll find yourself taking a trip to see Mr. Vernon and Mr. Davis, is that clear?" Her own piercing gaze was on his, and not once did it falter. When he refused to say anything else to her, Mrs. Girdlé simply left him alone, wondering why he chose to be so awful and disobedient.

She remembered seeing him for the first time just fifteen days ago. He had been so angry and imposing, but Mrs. Girdlé wasn't a coward, and she knew the minute that she laid eyes on the towheaded teen's bitter face that she would grow to like him just fine. Of course, having any ounce of civility for Dallas Winston was hard enough, but Mrs. Girdlé wasn't going to give up on the complex teenager—no, she figured that, with a little time, he would come around on his own. She just couldn't understand the meaning or find the significance of those jean jackets he liked to sketch.

She grinned as she came to a stop at another table. "My, my, is that your expression portrait of Miss Carlson?"

Ella Mitchell's face turned a shade as she nodded. "Yes, I think she resembles a sea of some sort, but the lightning is supposed to represent her strength . . . because Cathy is a strong individual. I just don't know what else to include right now."

The teacher nodded. Ella Mitchell was a very reserved and quiet student, one she was determined to bring out of her shell. Her partner was Cathy Carlson, the latest addition in that class, and while she was also a rather reserved spirit, Mrs. Girdlé thought that she and Ella would be perfect partners. She smiled at Cathy, the girl returning the gesture, and Mrs. Girdlé almost grinned at the thought of her becoming a teacher one day. Yes, a teaching position would suit her just fine, she thought, and Ella? Well, if only she could raise her voice a little . . . she would make a wonderful singer. But, with her compassion and kindness—much like that of Cathy—Ella would make a fine veterinarian. The two girls were opposites in terms of appearance, but it was humorous that they seemed to dress in accordance to each others exterior.

Where Cathy was small but lithe, her face framed with short, inky black hair, stormy gray eyes beneath sharply arched eyebrows, though seeming wide above puffy cheeks, she dressed in bright and floral colors. Her countenance was defiant, but not arrogant, friendly and nurturing, and surrounding the calm gray of her eyes, there was a vast amount of maturity lurking there.

Ella was pasty and petite, almond blue eyes almost seeming to be too large for her narrow face, which was nearly invisible due to her very bushy and frizzy hair that enveloped the majority of the upper half of her body. Her expressions were shy but wise, her eyes distant and emotional, a mystery swimming in the pools of a deep soul. And, in contrast to Cathy's brighter attire, Ella dressed in darker colors—long skirts and dresses—which kept her concealed from the outside world.

A perfect pairing for this project, it seemed.

"Ah, Mr. Thompson, just what exactly are you drawing Linda Holland as?"

Jerry Thompson was an awfully popular guy, somewhat quiet, too. Apparently, art wasn't exactly his fortè, but that was alright. Football was an art all on its own, Mrs. Girdlé thought, but she didn't exactly picture Linda Holland as a goal post. She peaked over at Linda's painting and nearly cringed at the sight of a half-clean, half-unclean football. Oh, goodness, she thought—those two were very deserving partners indeed.

Well, since nobody had wanted the pleasure of working with Dallas Winston, Mrs. Girdlé had taken the job, so with an expression of sheer concentration, she took a seat at her own desk and got to work, filling in the inner layers of a ragged jean jacket—protective of those it was wrapped around, but threadbare and worn, the material appearing rough and hard, like that of Dallas Winston.

XXXXX

Art history was one of Mrs. Girdlé's favorite topics of discussion. She could talk nonstop about every type of art, who invented what, every hue of the color spectrum . . . the woman was a walking genius of art itself, and she had made sure to learn every single aspect of the subject that she could fill her brain with, and so, teaching the history of art itself was always a pleasurable and fascinating class for Mrs. Shirley Girdlé.

"Good morning, Miss Shepard." She smiled at the small girl, wondering if she would ever be able to receive one in return. Goodness, but Angela Shepard always looked apathetic, as if she were afraid to truly express her inner self, though her lack of interest always appeared more like she was angry, or just an overall unpleasant individual.

"Morning," she replied instead, floating into the classroom with a evocation of snark, taking a seat at the table that had been previously occupied by Ella Mitchell and Cathy Carlson.

And, always being the last one to arrive, Two-Bit Mathews showed up just as the bell rang, offering a wide grin at Mrs. Girdlé as he entered her room.

"Top of the mornin' to ya, Shirley," he said with a wink, and swaggered his way to his shared table with Miss Shepard.

Mrs. Girdlé sighed lightly, following in behind the red-headed teen as she adjusted her glasses. She moved to the front of the room to stand in front of the blackboard, eyes trailing around her students carefully. They had been studying famous artists for the past few weeks of the first marking period and had just reached one of Mrs. Girdlé's personal favorites—Leonardo da Vinci.

"Who can tell me when da Vinci was born?" she asked.

"April 15, 1452," Two-Bit answered, smirking all the more. Across from him, or from Mrs. Girdlé's view, behind him, Angela rolled her eyes. "Says so right there on the board, Shirley!"

The woman chuckled a little. "Good to know that you _do_ read my notes, Mr. Mathews," she replied, giving him a knowing look. "Now you can no longer tell me that I haven't gone over certain things on my surprise pop quizzes."

But Mrs. Girdlé's quizzes were never too hard, and they were all done as a class effort. A few questions just to see who had been paying attention and who hadn't, but Mrs. Girdlé never had any trouble with any of her students, because surprisingly, most of them did pay attention—even Dallas Winston at times. But Two-Bit Mathews only cocked an eyebrow at her, one side of his lips curving up as he leaned back on the stool, crossing his right leg over his left.

Mrs. Girdlé continued to talk about da Vinci for the next several minutes, until assigning the class their project that they would be working on for the next week or so. She walked about the room while the students worked and chatted, only coming to a stop when she heard the infamous bickering of Two-Bit and Angela; she was glad that the project she had assigned was independent and didn't require partners—Two-Bit and Angela working together would be a disaster waiting to happen.

"He's too popular," Angela was saying, flipping through the pages of one of Mrs. Girdlé's art books. "I like Georgia O'Keefe just fine, thank you very much."

Two-Bit shook his head. "I don't even dig art all that much, but this Picasso guy sure knows how to toss around color." He turned his book around to face the black-haired girl. "Check this out, huh?"

Angela peered over. "He must've been tokin' some stuff to come up with that."

"Oh, don't be jealous that you ain't talented enough to paint like that, Ang," he quipped, and then turned a page. "Holy hell! There's nudies in here."

Mrs. Girdlé approached the table from behind Two-Bit. "Picasso was a very intimate artist," she said, causing the teen to jump a little. "And that other painting"—She flipped the page back—"is _Abstract_ _Music_ , Mr. Mathews."

"Is it now?" he asked, grinning. "Looks like it'd be jazz or somethin'."

"See that?" she countered in a jubilant voice, giving him a smile. "That is the painting speaking to you. Open your mind and hear it!" Leaving him to stare at her in bewilderment, she made her way over to Angela. "Ah, yes, that painting is called _Black Hollyhock, Blue Larkspur_. You seem quite fixated with it."

Angela's nose wrinkled. "It's different."

"How so?"

"The flowers," she answered softly. "It's calming."

The woman's chin lowered, remembering how interested Cathy Carlson was in Georgia O'Keefe. She was also quite familiar with the artist, too, and it was intriguing that Cathy Carlson and Angela Shepard couldn't be more friendly toward one another. Mrs. Girdlé had seen them passing by each other in the halls more than once, always looking at each other rather . . . harshly, or one of them would glare in the others direction.

But art spoke to people, and though Miss Shepard and Miss Carlson were at odds, their similarities rested in the subject itself.

"Hey, Shirley," Two-Bit called, shaking his head in laughter. "I think you oughtta introduce Dallas to this guy's work."

XXXXX

Mrs. Girdlé's third class of the day was Pottery, and though she loved seeing what her students would come up with, there were two girls—cousins, in fact—that brought a damper among the time span of the period. Vickie Harper and Beatrice Preston were both tall and blond—Vickie with blue eyes, and Beatrice with green. Both were considerably beautiful on the outside, but inside, they were vicious and plenty obnoxious. They sat—oddly enough—all the way in the back of the room, as they were the only two girls of their social status in that class, and only spoke to each other in low, hushed voices.

Mrs. Girdlé was never a judgmental woman, but when Miss Preston had questioned her knowledge on her teaching skills, and Miss Harper had once reported her to the board for treating her students unfairly, she couldn't bring herself to enjoy their company, so to speak. Then again, Beatrice and Vickie only associated with those that they considered to be worthy of their attention, and apparently, just because Mrs. Girdle had given Soda Curtis an A on his project and Vickie a B the year prior, both Vickie and Beatrice held her with contempt.

It was a shame, as Miss Harper was quite the talented potter. Beatrice was just as skilled, but where Vickie could shape a pot and mold it to perfection, Beatrice could decorate the exterior with delicate precision in a careful and steady hand.

Speaking of which . . .

"That's beautiful, Miss Harper," Mrs. Girdlé commented, eyeing the girl's finished pot.

She passed it across the table to her cousin. "Of course it is," she replied, blinking her eyes once. "I was careful to ensure that it would be."

Beatrice smiled. "I doubt anyone could ever possess the mastery skills Vickie has."

"Or you," Vickie continued, inspecting her perfectly manicured nails. "I can't imagine another student at this school acquiring your perfection of exterior and base, hand-designed work."

Mrs. Girdlé pressed a small smile. "How delightful that you both encourage each other so. We need more of that around here!"

Vickie didn't spare her another glance. "If only anyone around here had proper and adequate manners, than we could."

Mrs. Shirley Girdlé loved every class she taught, but sometimes, her third class of the day wasn't her exact favorite.

XXXXX

Mrs. Girdlé and Mr. Syme were the two teachers on duty Tuesday mornings for the first lunch period of the day. Mrs. Girdle was quite fascinated with Mr. Syme, mostly because he indulged himself in the subject of English the same way she took pleasure in art. It was ironic that both teachers had ended up with two of the Curtis siblings during their years teaching at Will Rogers. Mrs. Girdlé had both Darrel Curtis Jr. and Ponyboy for art class, and she had been one of the teachers on lunch duty a few years back during Darry's lunch period. Funny enough, she would be seeing Ponyboy next period before he went to English with Mr. Syme.

". . . before moving on to Shakespeare," Mr. Syme was saying, and Mrs. Girdlé nodded along. "I think it would be interesting for the students to have a combined art class to learn about the era through expression as well as the art itself."

"Well, we could definitely present the idea to Mr. Vernon, couldn't we?" she asked. "I think that's a wonderful idea."

The man looked thoughtful. "Perhaps I'll speak to him Friday afternoon about it."

Of course, this only pleased Mrs. Shirley Girdlé all the more. A combined English and Art class based on the Elizabethan era was bound to be a genuinely exciting experience. But which class? Ah, yes, the first class of the day would be absolutely perfect! Expressionism and Fine Art from Shakespeare's time to show both classes would be delightful.

Mrs. Girdlé could hardly wait for it . . . if only Vernon and Davis agreed.

XXXXX

Bridget Stevens was a vision in her cherry-blossom pink dress and kitten heels. Her hair cascaded down her back in obnoxious black ringlets, her emerald green eyes bright but timid. Mrs. Girdlé was quite fond of the girl, another new addition to Will Rogers. But the more, the merrier, as Shirley Girdlé liked to say—art needed people, and people needed art. It was a fact of life.

"Miss Stevens, don't you just look adorable!"

Bridget flushed, eyes gazing down at her apparel. "Pink is my favorite color."

"So I've noticed," Mrs. Girdlé responded, voice light and airy. "My daughter's favorite color is pink, too. She's twenty-three and still refuses to change the color of her bedroom."

"Really?" she squeaked, but the expression on her face was one of amusement. And then a genuine smile graced her porcelain face. "My room is pink, too."

"Probably looks like Pepto-Bismol," Two-Bit Mathews quipped as he passed by the art room. His eyes flashed in Bridget's direction, a grin brushing his lips. "Howdy, Miz Bee!"

The girl's cheeks turned a shade as she dashed inside, and following in behind her was Ponyboy Curtis, the youngest student in Mrs. Girdlé's fourth art class of the day—Abstract and Sculpture Painting.

Mrs. Girdlé had mastered the art of mental attendance, her eyes drifting about the classroom as she silently checked off each student that was present. She grinned at the sight of Ponyboy Curtis and Bridget Stevens chatting quietly among themselves, the two quietest of her students that period. They were working on their own separate projects—Bridget's looking like a half moon with one star resting on the tip, and Ponyboy's looking like a horse.

"You like horses?" the woman inquired, staring at the boy's work.

Ponyboy smiled. "My brother, Sodapop, does. He used to ride in the rodeo before he tore a ligament and our dad made him quit. He had this horse, well he wasn't his, but he . . . was _his_ horse, if you get that, and his name was Mickey Mouse." His brows raised a little as he glanced up at Mrs. Girdlé. "Mickey Mouse got sold one day, and I don't think Soda really got over it, so I thought I could make him this." A small smile curved his lips. "He sure liked that horse."

Across from him, Miss Stevens was grinning. "That's awful thoughtful of you, Ponyboy."

"Thanks."

"And another example of how art speaks to people and tells stories," Mrs. Girdlé gushed. "That is quite the tale, Mr. Curtis. I'm sure Soda will love it." She moved to study Bridget's sculpture. "And what are you making, Miss Stevens?"

Bridget licked her lips, looking a little nervous. "I . . . well, it doesn't exactly have a meaning. Not yet, at least. I think I'm going to add a sun, that way there's a reflection of night and day . . . maybe how quickly things can change."

Mrs. Girdlé could have clapped; she loved whenever her student's graced their work with meaning, and both Ponyboy and Bridget had done just that. But both students had proven to be very creative intellectuals, acquiring the same skills through art. Miss Stevens was a quiet girl, but she spoke through expression—and her eyes, they held worlds of meaning, such depth was reflected in those pools of green, secrets inside of secrets, a deep soul trying to penetrate the glass. And Mr. Curtis, a young teen that had seen and experienced too much in such a short time span. There was so much brewing inside of him, so much that was just waiting to speak out—volumes of meaning floating just beneath the calm surface.

Mrs. Girdlé was certain these two might be good friends, even if only through art itself.

"Quite the symbolic meaning, Miss Stevens," she said with a nod. "I'm sure it will be just lovely."

As Mrs. Girdlé practically waltzed about her room, she wondered where Bridget and Ponyboy would end up. She could imagine Bridget Stevens in theater, imagine her lithe frame moving effortlessly across a stage and capturing an audience with her spirit, and Ponyboy . . . she could picture him writing books, or doing something in the medical field. Perhaps, he would become something of a humanitarian—that seemed to be quite fitting.

XXXXX

Marybeth Tracy possessed a deep passion for books—books of every genre, books that were both true and not true, books that people didn't understand—or just didn't want to—and books about just every subject known to man. Miss Tracy was an eleventh grade English teacher, quite the nicest, and quite the prettiest among the others. Unlike Mr. Syme, though, she was more into the literature end of English, and where he focused more on teaching punctuation and proper grammar, and all of that, Miss Tracy delved more into teaching her students about books. Of course, that wasn't to say that she didn't give out the regular pop quizzes and the like, because she did—she was simply more . . . easygoing, and because of her sweet and compassionate nature, better liked.

Shirley Girdlé and Marybeth Tracy spent their lunch hour together, mostly because they so enjoyed each others company more than any of the other teachers who shared the eighth period lunch. The two women—although twenty or so years apart in age—respected each other, and they could talk non-stop about art and literature like they were married to the subjects.

Plainly put, they were good friends.

Mrs. Girdlé continued to peel an apple slice as Miss Tracy spoke. ". . . and my students, the girls especially, are discussing the homecoming dance." She took a sip of her water. "There seems to be a feud going on between some of the girls, too. Have you noticed?"

The older woman nodded. "I did. I hear talk of it from the committee and during class time. It upsets me that these girls are so . . . viscous to one another."

"They're all in some invisible contest, it seems," Miss Tracy said, looking upset. "I wish I could just understand, but it's not as if the girls would ever confide in us." And then a sigh escaped her lips. "It's just like . . . well, not to talk about our students . . . but ever since I assigned Evelyn Martin _The Scarlet Letter_ for her reading project, she seems to be quite . . . bitter toward me."

Mrs. Girdlé suppressed a sigh of her own. "Miss Martin has a lot going on. I've noticed that she's become close with two of my other students." She smiled, then. "Cathy Carlson and Ella Mitchell. I've also seen her speaking to Bridget Stevens on a few occasions."

"Really?" Miss Tracy sounded genuinely surprised, a touch of excitement in her tone. "That's actually wonderful! You see, Evelyn, Ella, and Bridget are all in my fourth period English class. I assigned Ella and Evelyn as partners for the reading comprehension and comparison project. How nice that they are getting along with Bridget, too!"

"Perhaps . . . only they feel that their vendetta is invisible," Mrs. Girdlé replied, sounding thoughtful. "I think these girls represent the underlying basis of this social class divide."

Miss Tracy blinked. "I have noticed that particular resentment before. But I've never really saw much of it expressed with the girls, only the boys."

"The girls are silent," Mrs. Girdlé pointed out. "The boys are impulsive and fight out their issues for all to see." She briefly remembered Dallas Winston and Jerry Thompson butting heads just the other week in class. "I just don't understand why there's such a divide to begin with."

"Me, either," the younger teacher said. "I hope one day things will be different . . ."

XXXXX

Evie Martin looked terribly aggravated when she entered Mrs. Girdlé's classroom later that afternoon, a scowl stretching about her face as she plopped down across from her boyfriend—Steve Randle—at the table all the way in the back of the room. Her elbows pressed into the table, her chin resting on top of her balled up fists. Steve eyed her skeptically from his seat, raising an eyebrow as if to silently ask her what was wrong.

Mrs. Girdlé had noticed the tension that seemed to be surrounding her junior pupil the past two weeks, and she really wanted to inquire if the girl was alright. Then again, Shirley Girdlé never took the direct or expected approach, so only when her final class of the day—Metal Art—was fully in session did she call the brunette to her desk, offering Mr. Randle a small smile to ease the forming glare on his face.

"You called?" Evie asked, crossing her arms over chest.

The art teacher nodded, expression gentle. "I wanted to ask you what the next class project should be to start off the second marking period." At the teen's look of bafflement, Mrs. Girdlé merely continued on in a cheerful voice. "You see, I was so taken with your metal sculpture of the human eye, and I was curious about it."

Evie pursed her lips. "You really want my opinion for what a project based off of my work should be?"

"I do."

The girl sighed hardly, looking rather off, or very, very occupied with her own thoughts. "Well, I ain't sure right now, Mrs. G."

"Oh, I didn't expect an answer right now, Miss Martin," she replied, shaking her head a little. "But, like I said, I was really impressed with your work, and I was wondering . . . why sculpt the human eye?"

"Well, why not?" she countered, sounding a bit vague. Her head jerked to the side, as if she were fed up just having a normal chit-chat with somebody, as if she were so aggravated that she would explode just standing there. Her arms tightened around herself as she lowered her chin. "Look, I didn't mean that, alright? I just got a lot goin' on."

Mrs. Girdlé nodded, looking at Miss Martin understandingly. Evie had always been a collected girl, maybe a little unorganized, but never out of sorts. She was cool and level-headed, and she never let anything get to her. It was funny—and ironic—that she and Miss Tracy had just been discussing Evie and three of her friends, and here Evie stood just in front of her desk, a sharp look on her angular face, brown eyes pressing for some hidden message on why Mrs. Girdlé had wanted to speak to her, lips lined together. Evie wasn't like most girls, and not because she dressed in clothes that weren't exactly considered modest, or because her hair was high and done up, but because she was true to herself, and she didn't let the hurtful comments or snide remarks of others bring her down.

Finally, Mrs. Girdlé nodded. "I understand, Evie. You can get back to me on the idea for the project next week. I'm sure you have a busy weekend ahead."

The girl's face twisted for a second, only a second, but then a very small smile brushed her lips. "Yeah, I suppose you're right."

"And I assume that Mr. Randle is your date?"

And then the girl visibly relaxed, a coat of pink coloring her cheeks. "Sure is. Ain't like I'd let anyone else take me."

Mrs. Girdlé laughed. "I'm sure you both will have fun."

"Yeah," Evie responded, now smiling. "Ya know, that eye I sculpted, I made it 'cause of that. Because of all that's goin' on in this school." She sounded almost embarrassed admitting this to Mrs. Girdlé, but the teacher's look was anything but judgmental. "There's just too much of it goin' on . . . hatred I mean, and it shouldn't be that way. So there it is—the eye of scrutiny."

Mrs. Girdlé looked impressed, and she clapped her hands together once. "That . . . Miss Martin, is a perfect form of art."

The girl's brows furrowed. "You think?"

"I know."

And so, Mrs. Girdlé went on to explain that a certain pair of molded hands that had once sat by the window had a similar story. Tim Shepard, once a student of Mrs. Girdlé's, before he dropped out of school, had sculpted them during his freshman year, and when Mrs. Girdlé had asked him about them, he simply told her that hands could really tell you about a person if you looked close enough. That had only been a few years prior, but Mrs. Girdlé planned to keep them forever. It was a shame—Curly Shepard would have been one of her students, but he was currently locked up for the next several months.

And by the end of that first marking period, Mrs. Girdlé had come to learn a great deal about a certain handful of students who graced her classes throughout the day, because their art spoke, and it spoke volumes.

Mrs. Girdlé never expected anyone to understand her—she expected them to learn from her, for through expression and knowledge deep within the soul is what brought art to life.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading. :3**


End file.
